


Apart

by enigmaticagentscully



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22172446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticagentscully/pseuds/enigmaticagentscully
Summary: The year after the heist. Falling out of love isn't as easy as it looks and some lives are harder to leave behind
Relationships: Raquel Murillo/Professor | Sergio Marquina
Comments: 23
Kudos: 127





	Apart

** One Month After **

There is a lot to do.

The glamorous life of the most successful bank robber in history is doubtless something a lot of people around the world are imagining right about now, but Sergio wonders if they would be quite so envious of his and his comrades’ good fortune if they knew how much _paperwork_ it entailed.

Not literal paperwork of course, not in this day and age. But in order to start a new life for himself and the others, there is a lot to be organised. Much of it was prepared before the heist, of course, but there are...edits that have had to be made from his original plans. Things taken into account that he could not have predicted. The fact that their gang came out of the Royal Mint with an extra member for a start – or one and a half extra, if you count Mónica Gaztambide’s unborn child as well. The fact that several of their number would surely point blank refuse to be parted even if he insisted upon it for security reasons. The fact that more than one had been identified by the authorities during the heist, and their faces were therefore more easily recognisable at a glance by the public.

The fact that three of their number never made it out of the Mint at all.

Sergio tries not to dwell too much on that last part, in spite of the fact that there are times he can think of little else. It is one of the many things he tries to push to the back of his mind, as he sits in his cheap hotel room – cautious of throwing his money around too extravagantly yet – in Manila. He is spending most of his time shut up in here these days, working on his state-of-the-art and exceptionally secure laptop, sorting out the details of the rest of his life. He still needs to ensure the money they have is being successfully filtered through the banking systems to be accessible to them anywhere in the world – minus the not insignificant amount that is still stashed in rolls of paper cash in various safe-houses and private vaults around the world. He still needs to keep an eye on his companions, now split up and scattered to the four corners of the earth, to make sure they settle into their new lives without trouble. He still needs to find himself somewhere to _live_ here in the Philippines, for goodness sake. To buy a house. Or perhaps have one built? After all, he has enough time and money to do whatever he wants now.

Sergio knows where he will settle down, anyway, when he leaves Manila. That part of his plan cannot be changed, not now. It is something in the nature of a promise, even if it’s a promise no-one but him knows he made.

If she ever comes to find him, he will be exactly where he said he would be.

He often leaves the television in his room on just for the company, muted so it’s a comfort rather than a distraction. And perhaps it is fate, or simply coincidence, or perhaps on some level he had been hoping for this even without realising it, but suddenly, as if summoned by his thoughts, there she is on the television screen. Sergio feels his heart skip a beat.

“Raquel...” he whispers, without even meaning to speak aloud. Her name echoes softly in the empty room, like a prayer.

It’s a Spanish news program. The shot is of her walking into a police station, being mobbed by journalists as she stoically forces her way through. The security is clearly inadequate – perhaps this is some kind of punishment for her from the authorities, to offer her so little protection from the vultures.

Sergio gazes at the screen hungrily, drinking in every moment of her. She looks tired. Her hair is loose and unbrushed around her shoulders, her shirt creased. There are dark circles under her eyes. She is beautiful. The longing for her which swells in his chest in unbearable; he stumbles forward and kneels down in front of the television screen, his eyes fixed on her image, hand fumbling behind him for the remote to turn the sound up.

“—announced that she was leaving the police force today,” speaks the voiceover, in a blandly professional tone. “Inspector Murillo, a figure of controversy even while the heist was active, has refused interview to further clarify the statement she released over how the case was mishandled by those in charge.”

On screen, the journalists are jockeying for position, shouting out questions that they must know Raquel can’t answer, fighting for her attention.

“Inspector Murillo! Inspector!”

“Is it true you’re under investigation for misconduct?”

“Inspector, over here! A few questions for our viewers!”

“Inspector, would you like to explain the comments you made about how the heist was handled?”

“I think my comments speak for themselves,” says Raquel crisply, striding through the throng. “Excuse me, I have nothing more to say.”

“Do you believe the robbers deserve the praise they have received from the public for their actions? Do you think what they did was justified? Do you think this kind of thing might happen again, now that they have got away with it?”

“I have nothing more to say,” repeats Raquel. She has reached the steps of the building, and Sergio watches eagerly, caught between wanting her to make it inside safely, and desperate not to lose sight of her.

“Inspector!” cries one journalist. “Is it true you had a romantic relationship with the man who orchestrated the heist, and helped him to escape?”

Sergio feels his breath catch in his throat and sees on screen, as if in a mirror, the same thing happen to Raquel. She freezes in place. It is not a question she was expecting, a leak of information she hadn’t been aware of. The rumour must not have hit the pages of the newspapers yet – this journalist wanted to surprise her with it, and he has.

“I...have nothing more to say,” Raquel says, but after a moment of hesitation too long. She has stopped moving, as if she has forgotten how. The journalists all start speaking at once, like sharks smelling blood in the water. The man who asked the initial question raises his voice above the rest:

“The authorities still have not tracked down the perpetrators, even the man in charge. If you could speak to him now, if you knew he was watching, what would you say to him?”

Even the babble of voices dies down to better hear her answer. Raquel looks uncharacteristically uncertain, staring at the man holding the microphone as though he is pointing a gun at her. Then, for the first time, she glances directly at the camera that is filming the scene and doesn’t look away, as if she has only just realised what it means. Even thousands of miles away, Sergio feels her gaze on him, and it hits him with such a force he feels weak at the knees.

Raquel opens her mouth. “I—”

She’s interrupted by a couple of uniformed police officers bursting out of the crowd of reporters, shoving the microphone away from her face and hustling her up the steps and inside. Evidently he is not the only one watching the live feed, and someone is keen to get her away from saying anything more on a public platform. The news program cuts back to the studio, but Sergio doesn’t hear another word as he stares blankly at the screen, feeling hollow. He stays there for some time, kneeling on the floor of the hotel room as if in supplication, the harsh light of the television screen playing across his face as the sun sets and darkness slowly engulfs him. Eventually, he switches off the screen and goes to bed.

He hardly sleeps that night. It is not surprising – after so long being wound up to the point of almost breaking with the planning and stresses of the heist, it will take more than a few weeks to get used to the idea that it’s all over. That there is no more preparation to be done, that there never will be again, that there will only the continuation of the protocols he laid in place long ago to ensure a safe retirement, feels both a relief and a worry. The rest of his life is a concerning blank, the details only thinly sketched. Perhaps a part of him never truly expected to make it this far.

His mind keeps drifting back to Raquel, staring at him through the camera, watched by thousands around the world and yet speaking, he knew, only to him.

What was she going to say? Did she even know herself? He lies in bed, hour after dragging hour, staring up at the slowly turning ceiling fan, imagining a dozen different responses from her lips; words of anger, of hurt, of bitter condemnation. Words of understanding, of forgiveness. Of love.

The next day Sergio scours the news websites, reading the headlines with an emotion that’s difficult to name. He’d expected the Spanish news to be full of this latest piece of gossip – for gossip is what it is, regardless of the truth in it – but he had hoped perhaps the international news was becoming tired of the case by now.

Unfortunately, something every country has in common is an eagerness for a love story. And so now, humiliatingly, Sergio finds his own is splashed across half the front pages of the news websites of the world. The news outlet whose journalist had asked the unexpected question – a small, backwater newspaper who must have gotten lucky with their sources – has a poor quality photograph of he and Raquel kissing in the café, and within hours the others have it too, along with blown up images of Raquel’s rabbit-in-the-headlights look at the camera as she was asked about him, and melodramatic headlines reading things like ‘Sleeping With The Enemy: Did A Love Affair Between Police Inspector And Criminal Help Pull Off The Greatest Crime Of All Time?’

There are old pictures of Raquel with her ex-husband and Paula, along with terse quotes of ‘no comment’ from Alberto, as well as from Raquel’s superiors and even, occasionally, from Ángel. Each one makes Sergio wince; in the world of journalism, a ‘no comment’ might as well be an admission of truth. There is wild speculation about Raquel’s involvement in the crime, framing her either as a willing accomplice or a naive fool, depending mostly on the opinion of the writer of the article. There are long, breathlessly speculative think-pieces in magazines that paint Sergio as some kind of suave seducer of women, which almost makes him laugh out loud until he realises how Raquel must be feeling reading all this, and then it just makes him feel sick with guilt.

But the worst is that photograph from the café. The cctv screenshot is hardly of good enough quality to easily identify him, which is a relief – though Sergio knows the police must have better quality images of his face from other cameras by now – but every time he sees it he feels as though he’s been punched in the gut.

There he is, grainy and out of focus and kissing Raquel. Leaning down over the table to capture her lips, as her head is tilted upwards to kiss him back, a moment frozen in time forever. Barely five minutes later she would be pointing a gun at him in the bathroom, having finally figured out the truth, and from then on...there would be no going back. Sergio wants to step inside the picture and physically freeze time, to stop the world from moving onwards from that one perfect moment, to live forever inside it.

A few days later – as Sergio is shut in his room on his secure laptop, deep in the complicated business of moving large amounts of money through various financial systems to turn wads of cash into actual usable capital – the interview with the owner of the _Hanoi_ café comes out.

Sergio supposes it’s something he might have anticipated, but then you could only go so far, couldn’t you? He couldn’t possibly have threatened or paid off every single person who might ever have seen him simply walking around Madrid – hiding in plain sight had been the idea, and there was no reason when he made the plan and created the persona of ‘Salva’ to think that the owner of the café would ever be any the wiser as to who his regular customer truly was.

In truth, the man hadn’t seen much. But it had been enough. Enough to spin another few pages of a magazine article out of anyway, to give him his moment in the spotlight and doubtless a fat cheque in return for what little he recalled of Inspector Murillo’s clandestine meetings with Spain’s most wanted master criminal.

From what Sergio sees on the news, Raquel is practically a prisoner in her own house; he can only imagine what she must have had to tell her mother and her daughter. He hopes they have some friend they can stay with until this all blows over.

As for himself, he entertains stupid, pathetic fantasies about going back to Spain somehow, showing up at Raquel’s door and whisking her away from all of it, like a hero from some old romantic movie. As if he could even get within a hundred kilometres of Madrid without being arrested, let alone to her front door. Even then she is as likely to punch him in the face as fall into his arms – it wouldn’t be anything he didn’t deserve.

He goes down to the hotel bar in the evening for dinner, more for the desire to have people around to distract him from his own thoughts than because he’s particularly hungry. In fact he hasn’t eaten much in the last few days; with no one around to remind him, he tends to forget when he’s absorbed in work, or distracted by some project. Andrés – always an overpoweringly if sporadically affectionate brother – had on occasion been obliged to almost physically drag him down to dinner with the others at the Toledo estate when he had been absorbed in some minor detail of planning.

_What’s life without the pleasure of good food and company, Sergio? What will you even spend the money on when you get it, shut up in your room every hour of the day? Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die!_

In fact, Andrés had needed to force the issue less and less as time went on. Sergio enjoyed sitting down with the others, talking with them, eating with them. Listening to Denver and Moscow’s friendly ribbing of each other, Tokyo’s loudmouth opinions, Helsinki and Oslo’s crude jokes; the bickering and the teasing and the laughter as well as the planning and dreaming of what their lives would be afterwards.

These days, he always eats alone.

The hotel bar is almost empty, this being off-season for tourists. A couple of old men playing cards in the corner and a scattering of solo travellers on a budget are his only company, especially as it is later to eat than is usual in this part of the world. Sergio orders a sandwich from the bored looking bartender and sits on a barstool sipping some kind of sticky lemon flavoured drink without much enthusiasm, at least grateful for the briskly whirring ceiling fans for keeping the place cooler than his stuffy hotel room. A TV screen bolted to the wall of the bar plays a 24 hour international news channel, muted, and Sergio finds his eyes irresistibly drawn once again to the same clips that have been playing on repeat in his mind all day. If this is some kind of punishment for his sins, Hell itself couldn’t have found a more fitting one. He will likely never again see the woman he loves, and yet he will be forced to see her everywhere. Every day.

There’s an American tourist sitting at the other end of the bar, watching the news just as avidly. He notices Sergio’s interest and jerks his head at the screen.

“Can you believe this?” he asks, in the casual way all Americans have of assuming anyone they meet anywhere can understand English. “It’s crazy right?”

Sergio nods.

“I’ve been following the whole thing,” says the man. My mother-in-law lives in Spain, and she says they were all wild about it over there when it was going on. Like it was a movie. Or the ultimate reality show.” He chuckles, not unkindly. “I’ll bet it was good for their tourism industry though. They’ll probably start doing tours round the Mint, like those gangster tours you can do in Chicago. Sell those Dali masks at the gift shop, y’know?”

Sergio nods again, making a vague sound of assent. It has actually never occurred to him that he might become a tourist attraction. He entertains himself briefly with wondering what this man’s face would look like if he knew who he was really talking to.

“And now look at this!” says the man, gesturing to the TV screen, where the news is playing the familiar clip of Raquel fighting her way through reporters. “Just when you think it’s all over – another twist! The detective in charge of the case who was supposed to be stopping them was in on it the whole time!”

Sergio doesn’t bother to correct him. He is watching Raquel.

“I guess they must have fallen out though,” says the American contemplatively. “Since they left her behind when they escaped.”

On the screen, the news clip is replaced by two news anchors sitting at a table, obviously starting a discussion of the story they have just been reporting on. Behind them is a headshot of Raquel, probably from the police database, given her stoic expression, as well as the familiar grainy still image of their kiss in the café.

The American man watches dispassionately for a minute.

“He really screwed her over, huh?” he says.

“Yes,” Sergio says, getting up to leave. “Yes, he really did.”

* * *

** Two Months After **

Raquel is so distracted by her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice Paula is watching her from the half open doorway to her bedroom until she hears a small voice say:

“What’s wrong, Mama?”

Raquel’s head whips up in surprise. “Ah, Paula...” She wipes her tears away quickly, but it is obvious it’s too late. “I’m sorry. I’m okay, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” says Paula. “Why are you crying?”

In spite of her words, Paula does look a little wobbly, her eyes wide, so Raquel pats the bed next to her, urging her daughter to come and sit down. She puts her arm around Paula’s small shoulders when she does so, and gives her a little squeeze.

“Well, it’s a bit embarrassing,” says Raquel, and manages a weak smile as her daughter looks up at her. “Do you remember my friend who visited here once, a while ago?” Seeing Paula’s confused expression, she prompts: “He had a beard and glasses? You asked him if we were dating.”

“Oh yes!” says Paula. She smiles. “He said you kissed and it was like the same thing.”

“Yes. Well, I’m a little sad today because I haven’t seen him in a long time, and I miss him.”

It’s not _quite_ the truth, or at least not the whole of it, but it’s close enough to make Raquel feel a mixture of embarrassment and relief to have admitted it aloud, even to Paula. Her little girl seems satisfied at the explanation, some of the tension leaving her small frame as she realises it’s nothing worse.

“Oh,” she says. “Can’t you call him up?”

“I wish I could, but I don’t have his number. In fact...” And why not be honest? Paula is old enough to understand these things now. “In fact I’m not sure if I’ll ever see him again. Or if he even wants to see me.”

To her surprise, Paula puts one arm around her waist, reflecting her own gesture of comfort. “Like my friend Sofía who moved away,” she says.

“Yes. Yes, like Sofía.” Raquel remembers the little girl in question, whose family moved last year, and to whom Paula wrote laborious letters until the correspondence gradually faded away, and the friendship with it. It is a little heartbreaking to think that Paula herself would be able to draw such a comparison.

“I’m sorry about your friend, Mama,” says Paula in a small voice.

“Thank you,” says Raquel, and she really means it. “I’ll be okay. I have you, don’t I? You’ll always be my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend too,” says Paula. “You and Grandma and Papa.” She glances sideways anxiously, obviously worried about being rebuked for including her father, but Raquel lets it pass. “And María from school,” she finishes thoughtfully.

Raquel can’t help but smile. “That’s good,” she says. “It’s good to have a lot of friends. I guess I could learn a lot from you, sweetheart.”

Paula looks surprised and quietly pleased at this idea; she’s at the age where she desperately wants to be grown up, but the idea that her mother might admit Paula is better at something than her is clearly still a strange one. Raquel wonders how much weakness she should really show in front of her daughter, the fine line she can tread between being honest with Paula and simply confusing and worrying her.

It’s a difficult question to navigate, and something she’s had to think of a lot since filing the complaint against Alberto. Sometimes trying to protect your child from the truth just makes them more vulnerable to lies. The story of the heist on the Royal Mint is another such situation she’ll have to navigate soon enough...not now perhaps, but when Paula is a little older she will surely start to ask questions about what happened, when she starts to understand that her mother was deeply involved in one of the most famous events of Spain’s recent history.

What will she tell her, when that time comes? How much of this will Paula even remember when she really _is_ grown up? How will she view Raquel’s actions when she learns the truth?

At least that can be a worry for another day. Tonight, her little girl is still just a child, easily reassured, quick to forget. Speaking of which...

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” says Raquel gently. “It is a school night, after all.”

“Okay,” says Paula, jumping up obediently, perhaps trying to show off her new found maturity by not arguing. “Goodnight, Mama.” She leans forward and kisses Raquel in the cheek. “I hope you’re less sad tomorrow.”

“I’m less sad already,” says Raquel, with a smile. “Goodnight sweetheart.”

* * *

** Three Months After **

Sergio has a house.

It’s lavish, but not excessive. In the end he didn’t have to have something built from scratch – an old and rundown place on a little island just off the coast of Palawan is perfect for his needs, and he buys it at a relatively bargain price, and spends far more money having it renovated to his personal tastes. It is, perhaps, a little big for one person to live in alone, but he means to enjoy his wealth, and hiring local workers at generous wages makes for a smooth integration into local community. Anyway, it gives him a project to work on.

Sergio undertakes many such projects. He is experienced at being alone, at entertaining himself, at keeping himself busy. There were long periods of his childhood when books and television had to be companions enough, and – if he was honest – in adulthood as well. So he is well versed in making sure he has distractions enough to drown out the voice of his own conscience, to quieten the persistent feelings of regret and guilt. He is an introspective man by nature, a keen observer of both the psychology of others and his own, but there are times when it is best not to examine one’s demons too closely.

It is more difficult at night, when he finds himself restless, his mind too crowded for sleep. At such times he often goes for long walks on the beach, breathing in lungfuls of the cool night air, looking up at the breathtaking immensity of stars scattered overhead. In those brief moments it seems almost peaceful to be alone.

Sergio imagines the others, wherever they are, looking up at those same stars. Scattered around the world, but under the same sky, connected still by this. Perhaps even those companions they lost forever along the way can see the stars as well – who is he to say?

It’s a comforting thought, most of the time.

* * *

** Four Months After **

The heist on the Royal Mint of Spain is fading, little by little, from the public consciousness.

It is no longer in the news, displaced by an environmental disaster, a new survey about rising joblessness among young people in Europe, and the latest controversy over some ill-judged remarks the American President has made on Twitter. Life moves on, after all, and even the most thrilling story quickly goes stale in today’s world of 24/7 news feeds.

Raquel can walk down the street to the store without being mobbed by reporters. She can pick her daughter up from the school gate without having to ignore the stares and whispers of the other parents, or at least it is not as bad as it was. And the problems she might have had with her colleagues at work are not an issue, since work itself is no longer an issue.

Since she had technically cooperated with the police, and was cleared of any wilful wrongdoing, she was allowed to resign instead of being kicked out. They even gave her a year’s severance pay, clearly intended as hush money to keep her quiet about how exactly the events at the Royal Mint had played out. After her first impetuous comments to the press in a moment of anger, Raquel complied with the orders to not comment further, not out of any particular loyalty but more out of a genuine desire to simply not talk about it. It is strange, that an experience so dramatically renowned – the biggest robbery of all time! – feels to her so intimately personal. Private.

So it is a relief, that things have reached the point where no one cares enough any longer to try and _make_ her talk about it. Her life can start getting back to normal.

Raquel has no idea what ‘normal’ is supposed to mean, any more. Frankly, she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

One day her phone rings in the evening after her mother and Paula have gone to bed, and Raquel answers it without even looking at the number that’s calling, so long has it been now since she was bothered by reporters or snoops. It’s only when she hears the voice on the other end that she remembers there are other things she has been trying to avoid.

“Raquel?”

“Ángel. What do you want?”

There’s a brief moment of hurt silence on the line and Raquel winces, immediately guilty. It’s not Ángel’s fault that the mere sound of his voice reminds her of things she’s been trying not to think about. She owes him better than outright rudeness.

“I haven’t seen you since I got released from hospital,” says Ángel. “I wanted to see how you were doing. If you were alright.”

The criticism is obvious – she has not checked in on him, even though he was the one nearly killed in the course of the heist. He is the one being a good friend, a good colleague...Raquel at once feels both even guiltier and annoyed at Ángel for having the moral high ground for once.

“I’m sorry,” she says, sincerely. “I’ve been...busy.”

It’s a lie and they both know it, but Ángel doesn’t call her out on it. “Look, I’d like to see you,” he says. “Perhaps we could get together sometime for a drink? Or dinner?”

Raquel feels her stomach lurch uncomfortably. She has turned him down for many such offers before while they were working together, careful not to give him the wrong idea. Now they are no longer colleagues it feels even more dangerous to accept. She knows Ángel does not mean dinner at his house with his wife. He’s never meant that.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says carefully.

This time the silence is even longer, and even more hurt. When Ángel speaks again, Raquel can hear him trying to master his emotions.

“I spoke in your defence, you know?” he says. “When they were talking about pressing charges against you. Even after...” He breaks off, and she hears his heavy sigh down the phone. She can almost picture him, perhaps sitting at a bar somewhere, or perhaps standing outside his house smoking while Mari Carmen sleeps inside. She imagines him scrubbing his hand though his beard, the way he always does when he’s frustrated, and suddenly she misses him so powerfully it almost hurts. “I thought we could still be friends Raquel,” he says. “Like before.”

“We can,” says Raquel, and it’s all she can do not to cry. “We are. I just...need some time.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Look Ángel, I have to go.”

“Are you looking for him?”

The question is like a punch to the gut. The flood of anger that fills Raquel almost comes as a relief. Perhaps it’s irrational, but she feels as if this might have truly been why Ángel called in the first place.

“Are _you?_ ” she snaps.

“That’s not my job,” says Ángel. “Or yours.”

“That didn’t stop you before,” says Raquel.

“It didn’t stop you either.” Then, more quietly: “Do you really want you find him, Raquel? After what he did to you?”

Her mouth goes dry. “Why? Do you know some—”

“No.” Ángel’s voice in no longer angry, but flat, disappointed. “Like I said, it’s not my job.”

She hangs up the phone on him, and to his credit, Ángel doesn’t try to call her back. Raquel spends the rest of the evening restless and on edge, torn between guilt and anger, for so many things she can’t even start to try and untangle them all in her mind.

And then she goes to bed and gets up the next morning to take Paula to school, as usual, because what else can she do?

Raquel is spending a lot more time with Paula, recently. And that _is_ nice, genuinely, one of the few good things to have come out of all this mess. And she has more time to take care of her mother too. She keeps as busy as she can. And yes there are nights when she has a drink and thinks of every single lie Sergio Marquina told her and curses his name to hell and back. And yes there are nights when she listens to achingly sad songs and eats ice cream right out of the tub with a spoon and sobs into her pillow like a heartbroken teenager. And yes there are nights when she is consumed by the memory of his lips on her skin, his arms around her, when she can hardly think for _longing_...

There are no nights when she doesn’t think of him at all. The country, the world might have moved on, but she has stalled. And whatever she might tell Ángel, she does want to find Sergio. To kiss him or kill him she isn’t sure, but the thought of never seeing him again...

He could be literally anywhere in the world. Raquel could spend a lifetime searching and never find him, and that knowledge alone makes her too afraid to try, even before she acknowledges the nagging feeling that perhaps he doesn’t _want_ to be found.

She should make her peace with what happened and move on with her life.

She has to.

* * *

** Five Months After **

It is a good life here. A peaceful life. The kind of life Sergio had dreamed as a boy of having, trapped as he was in a succession of bland, clinical hospital rooms, bored and lonely. It is, in many ways, a perfect life.

Palawan, and the island on which he lives, is a place full of light and colour and vibrancy and astounding beauty. After nearly half a year, Sergio has settled into something like a routine, if such a word can be applicable for one so obviously blessed with the good fortune he has been. He wakes at dawn and practises Tai Chi on the beach, feeling the sun on his skin as it rises slowly over the horizon, spilling golden light onto the sea. He listens to music. He plays chess against the old man who lives in town. He befriends some local fisherman and persuades them to let him help out once in a while, because it’s good to feel useful, and their casual chatter helps him get a grasp of the language more quickly. He frequents the local markets, and reads second-hand paperback novels in cool shady cafés, with a glass of fresh fruit juice in hand and the comforting babble of voices and the whir of ceiling fans surrounding him. He hires a housekeeper who teaches him how to make some of the local cuisine, with varying levels of success. He has enough money to instantly satisfy any whim he might ever have, and spends a certain amount of time on the secure computer Rio set up for him investing it carefully, and pouring as much of the excess as he can without raising suspicion into various charitable trusts. Money makes money, as every fool knows, and in ten years he will be even richer than he is now. Might as well try and do some good with it.

He has the locals pretty much convinced that he is the eccentric son of some kind of Russian oligarch; in truth his Russian is far from perfect, but theirs is non-existent, and frankly they don’t really care who he is as long as he is generous with his money, which he is, and keeps himself mostly to himself, which he does.

And every afternoon, after the boat comes in from the mainland, he goes to the same bar and sits down and waits.

And hopes.

He vaguely toys with the idea of writing his memoirs; something part manifesto, part simply the story of what happened, to be published long after his death. But something in him rebels at the idea. It feels too narcissistic somehow, and anyway the events of the heist are still too raw for him to be able to write about dispassionately. He cannot find a way to put into words the experience of hearing his brother die, of seeing the bodies of his friends laid out in wooden boxes, of the look in Raquel’s eyes when she found out who he really was.

He dreams of her, almost as often as he dreams of his brother, though the dreams are of course different in nature. Andrés dies in a hail of bullets every time, over and over until his magnificent, flamboyant end is almost banal in its familiarity. The blood blossoming on his red jumpsuit, the smile on his face as he hits the ground, lifeless.

Raquel is different in Sergio’s dreams, more elusive. Often he doesn’t even see her face, just catches a glimpse of her standing out on the beach, her feet in the surf; running to her, he always awakes the moment before she turns around. Or else he sees her through the crowds at the local market, following a flash of dark caramel coloured hair until she weaves out of sight, deaf to his shouts.

Sergio would prefer, given the choice, to dream of other things, to re-live the moments he spent with her in his arms, but such thoughts are reserved instead for his waking hours. He tries not to dwell on them, without much success.

In all probability he will never see her again. He knows, logically, that he has to accept that truth. He left her a way to find him, of course – stupid risk though it was – but any success that plan has depends on a number of factors, all unpredictable. That she hadn’t simply thrown out or destroyed the postcards. That she was looking for him at all. That she wouldn’t turn his location in to the police the moment she saw it.

But no, he won’t believe that. He _can’t._

_I’m with you_ , she had said. And she had shown it; not just with her words but by her actions, what she had done to help him, what she had risked. And her mouth, fierce and urgent against his own...

No, Raquel Murillo would not betray him. And in another life Sergio might have laughed at his own certainty of that fact – certainly Andrés would have. _What a hypocrite_ , his brother would have said, half joking, half serious. _After everything you said to me. What did I tell you about love, little brother? You’re certain, every_ time.

And he is certain. Even after almost half a year, even knowing that in all likelihood she has changed her mind about him, reassessed what they really had together in the sober light of day and decided she would be crazy to pursue it. Even knowing that he may never in his life see the woman he loves again. He is certain. He’ll be certain for the rest of his life, he thinks; a lifetime in paradise, with his freedom and more money than anyone could imagine, and the knowledge that he pulled off the impossible, that his success will go down in history...

A lifetime of his mind always being elsewhere; thinking only of a warehouse in Madrid, with Raquel curled against his side, naked and glowing with happiness, teasing him about his glasses, smiling even as she kisses him.

He truly is fucked.

* * *

** Six Months After **

The man’s name is Marc. He is an accountant.

He makes a joke about it when they first meet, at a parents’ evening at Paula’s school. Raquel can only imagine all accountants must have some kind of self deprecating joke to hand when they reveal their vocation to a new acquaintance, simply to overcome the awkward silence that inevitably greets them when they admit to having the most notoriously boring job imaginable.

Still, he introduces himself with a confidence that isn’t presumptuous, and he tells his joke, and it makes Raquel laugh. It’s been a while since she laughed. Marc is divorced, and has a daughter himself in Paula’s class. He’s a few years younger than Raquel, and attractive, in an accountant kind of way. Neat hair and warm eyes and an expensive suit. He genuinely doesn’t seem to recognise her from the news, or if he does he is tactful enough not to mention it. Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s agreed to go to dinner with him.

She tries not to think about the fact that the last first date she went on ended up with her pointing a gun at her companion under the table.

It feels strange, getting ready, putting on make-up, taking time with her hair and pulling out clothes she hasn’t worn in months. As if she is somehow playing the role of a normal person, with a normal life. She meets Marc in town, not wanting him to come to her front door and spark questions from her mother about who he is. He smiles when he sees her.

“You look nice.”

“Thank you.”

That bit of the script over with, he takes her to a nice restaurant, a place she would usually have avoided for being too expensive. He holds out the chair for her as she sits down, they order wine and food, they talk. Raquel steers the conversation away from her former job, and her ex-husband, both too heavy subjects to get into on a first date. Marc follows her lead well enough, and the conversation flows with only a couple of awkward pauses. He makes her laugh a few times – he’s funny, this man – although at times she feels like he’s trying a bit too hard. He insists on paying the bill when they’re done, which mildly annoys her, though goodness knows she has to be careful enough with money these days, so she accepts with as much grace as is possible.

Afterwards, he walks her back to her home, as it is isn’t far and the night isn’t cold. The conversation dries up a little, but the silence between them isn’t awkward so much as just...inevitable. They have run out of things to say.

At the end of her street, as they prepare to part ways, Marc turns and smiles guardedly at her.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he says.

“Yes,” says Raquel, and smiles back. “Me too.”

There is a long silence, and eventually Marc sighs. “We’re not going to be meeting again, are we?” he says.

“No, I don’t think so,” says Raquel, and then realises what a weak answer this is and repeats, as firmly as she can while still being polite: “No. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” says Marc.

He leaves, making some vague mention of seeing her again at the next parents evening, but thankfully doesn’t look particularly hurt by her rejection, only mildly disappointed. He doesn’t look back as he walks away. Raquel tries to make herself feel _something_ , if only guilt, but the only emotion she can summon is slight relief at the whole thing being over.

She creeps into the house as quietly as possible so as not to wake her mother – Paula sleeps like a log whatever the noise – and wipes off her makeup carefully before changing into her comfortable pyjamas and slipping into bed. It’s hard to sleep though; she finds herself staring at the ceiling, wondering what went wrong. She hopes Marc isn’t in his home, wondering the same thing, and then feels vaguely guilty about the fact that she can’t even remember his last name. She half wishes he had been a reporter, someone looking for an inside story. Or just a regular asshole trying to get into her bed. She wishes he had been anyone other than just a genuinely decent, good-looking man who she has absolutely no interest in whatsoever.

She doesn’t try anything like it again.

* * *

** Seven Months After **

Palawan no longer feels like a holiday. Sergio’s house is now his home. He tries to imagine what his younger self would have thought of the life he has now, and finds it almost impossible to remember that boy at all. Perhaps that is the best thing to do, in the end. To forget.

Forget everything that came before. Wipe the slate clean and become a new man entirely. Put on a new mask.

* * *

** Eight Months After **

Her mother is getting worse.

It’s little things, things Raquel might not even have noticed had she still been working and not been around so much. A word forgotten here and there. The oven left on, the door left unlocked. Sometimes she finds her mother standing in the middle of a room, looking lost, just staring into space, having apparently forgotten what she was doing in the middle of doing it. More frightening are the times when she looks at Raquel and just for a moment there is a blankness in her gaze, as though she can’t quite place the woman in front of her. It feels like a preview of what’s to come. Raquel speaks to Paula about it, tries to prepare her for the time when her grandmother might not recognise her, but how could you prepare a little girl for that? How could anyone prepare for someone they love forgetting that they even exist?

One day she catches her mother staring at her over the table as they eat lunch together, her expression pensive. Today has been a good day, and Mariví doesn’t seem distressed, so Raquel smiles at her questioningly. “Is something wrong, Mama?” she asks. “You’re not hungry?”

Her mother smiles back. “I’m never hungry these days,” she says. “Old people never are. I just eat for the company. I was just thinking...why haven’t I seen your boyfriend recently?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend any more Mama,” Raquel says gently, assuming that her mother is thinking of Alberto, since she had not bothered to mention the embarrassingly brief experiment of Marc. “We split up, remember? It’s why me and Paula live here with you now.”

She does not point out why; it has long since become clear that her mother only sporadically recalls life events that would once have been of vital importance. It is a blessing that she can still remember how to do everyday things like make a cup of tea and dress herself, but expecting her to be able to recall the details of her daughter’s messy divorce is too much to hope for.

“No, no, not _that_ one,” says her mother, frowning with annoyance. Raquel wonders if she remembers _why_ she doesn’t like Alberto, or if she just has a vague sense that she shouldn’t. “The other one. The sweet one with the glasses.”

The casual words hit Raquel like a punch to the gut, and it is several seconds before she is able to pull the air into her lungs to reply.

“Sorry Mama, I’m not with him anymore either.”

“That’s a shame. I liked him.”

Raquel forces a smile. “Me too,” she says.

It sits in her chest all day like a lead weight, and Raquel finds herself wondering despairingly why on earth her mother should remember the brief few hours she spent with ‘Salva’, why that fact should be recalled and filed somewhere in her slowly crumbling mind as significant when often Mariví cannot remember the names of her own daughters. It feels a particularly cruel joke for the universe to play when it is the one thing Raquel herself is trying her hardest to forget.

Well, perhaps not forget. She can’t forget. But perhaps to...reconcile. To understand. The heist...everything that happened...it’s starting to feel like half a dream to her, as if somehow she had stepped into someone else’s life for a while, and now only has the memories of that time to convince herself that she didn’t imagine the whole thing.

It’s incredible, really, how much a person’s whole life could be changed in the space of a single week. Raquel truly wouldn’t have believed it herself if it hadn’t happened to her. It was hardly the fairytale romance of cheap paperback novels that she had dreamed of as a teenager, nor had she been under some kind of starry-eyed spell that had made her take leave of her senses, as the newspapers had so humiliatingly tried to spin it. What she’d discovered in that single, intense week when she’d known Sergio Marquina, even before she’d learned his real name, had been something far more than that. It had _meant_ more than that. It had been something more than the sum of its parts.

And even now, Raquel still cannot think that she did the wrong thing. She can tell herself anything she likes about principles, and integrity, and morals, but the plain truth of it is that in the moment when she finally made her choice, shackled to the ceiling of that hangar, looking into Sergio’s desperate eyes, logic and reason didn’t really come into it.

In the end, she’d just thought: _to hell with it._

To hell with it all. To hell with the job she had given her whole life to even though it had _never_ given her a single thing back. To hell with the authorities, who seemed to care more about their reputation than human lives. To hell with Prieto, and Alberto, and yes even Ángel, to hell with every man who had patronised her or dismissed her every single day of her life, who had seen her as nothing more than a pair of tits with a badge. To hell with the system that had dismissed and abandoned her when she had needed it the most. And to hell with having to sacrifice the _one_ thing, the one person she had found that made her happier than she had been in years, and for what? To protect the government’s precious fucking money? To hell with it.

In the end, Raquel did not really make her choice for the gang of criminals inside the Mint and Sergio Marquina’s great cause. She did not even truly make the choice for Sergio. She had made it for herself. Because for once, just _once_ in her life, she had wanted to be selfish. Because for the first time she had met someone who made her feel as though she did not have to choose between being loved and being respected. Someone who made her believe she could be happy, and that maybe, just maybe, she _deserved_ to be.

She remembered the wistful smile on his face, the way he’d looked at her.

_Don’t you want to get away?_ he had asked. _Can you imagine raising your daughter on a sunny beach?_

And she can. She does. But more often it is not herself that Raquel imagines on that beach, or even Paula; it is him.

It has become a regular fantasy, whenever she feels the walls closing in around her, when the weight of her life gets too much, when she has one of those really bad days that leave her feeling tired and bitter and so desperately lonely she could howl.

She imagines palm trees, white sand, a stretch of ocean dazzling in the sun. She imagines Sergio lying on a towel, perhaps propped up on one elbow and typing on a laptop, perhaps reading a book. She can’t picture him doing nothing at all, somehow. She imagines the sea breeze tugging gently at his hair, the faint, preoccupied smile on his face, the way the sun has darkened the pale tone of his skin. Usually he is not wearing a shirt – what the hell, it’s her fantasy, after all.

Sometimes she allows herself to walk into the scene, to stroll over to him, feeling the sand between her bare toes, imagines the look on his face as he looks up and sees her.

Sometimes she joins him there on the sand, straddles him and pushes him down, kisses him fiercely and—

Well. A fantasy is all it is, and all it will ever be.

Deep down, Raquel knows that the Sergio Marquina she imagines is in reality a man she barely knows. A week of her life, over half a year ago, spent with a man who was lying about almost everything he ever told her, even his own name. What an idiot she is to even look back on that time, on _him_ , with fondness! How can she claim to still be in love with this man, when she never even knew who he really was? What she saw of him was only ever glimpses of his real self, filtered through the mask he was always wearing, whether she knew it or not.

How much of him was truly in Salva, the kind, tender, socially awkward man who always listened to her without judgement, who smiled at her as though she were the most beautiful woman in the world, who charmed her mother and played the piano and made love to Raquel with such intense, overwhelming passion that she blushes to think about it even now? Was any of that real?

Or was he always the Professor, the suave, calculating genius behind the biggest crime in history, the man who was always three steps ahead, who delighted in getting under her skin with his flirting and mind games? The man who destroyed her career, who opened her eyes? The faceless idealist who has already become for many a symbol of resistance against the corrupt powers that be?

Perhaps the answer lies somewhere in the middle. Perhaps Sergio is both, or neither, or something in between. All Raquel truly has to go on is what she saw of him after she discovered the truth; when he was desperate and angry and terrified and pleading with her to understand. When every lie was stripped away. When he had looked her in the eyes and told her, again and again, that he had fallen in love with her, that he had never meant for any of this to happen. When he had kissed her...

God, the way he had kissed her. Raquel had never been kissed like that before in her whole life – kissed not as though she were a challenge conquered or a prize won, but as though...as though she were a _gift_ , something precious and rare and longed-for, accepted with infinite gratitude and wonder and such devastating desire that it had taken her breath away.

Whatever else had not been true, Raquel doesn’t believe it could be possible to fake a kiss like that. And if that makes her a fool, then she’s a fool. If hoping that he is happy, wherever he is, makes her a fool as well, then she’ll be a fool for that too.

She had hoped, at first, that Sergio would be thinking of her. Now she hopes more than anything that he never thinks of her at all.

* * *

** Nine Months After **

Sergio is sick with love, useless with it.

He wants to carve it out of himself like a cancer; he wants to clutch it close and never let go. He had thought the feeling would fade in time, hoped for it and dreaded it in equal measure.

Instead he has spent nine months cursing Andrés for everything he ever said about love, bitterly reminding himself of all the times he thought his brother a fool for making the same mistake over and over again. Five marriages and five divorces. _Five._ Surely, Sergio had thought back then, sooner or later his brother would realise what an idiot he was making of himself. Surely as the evidence mounted up that letting your feelings run away with you was a bad idea, he would eventually see that his logic of ‘love conquers all’ was flawed?

In the end it turned out they were both fools. And logic and reason seem to have nothing to do with it.

What Sergio knows is this: what he had with Raquel Murillo, fierce and passionate and bright as it flared, was always doomed to fail in the end. There were too many complications, too many lies. There was too little time. She was never truly his. He should accept that and move on with his life.

What he feels, deep in his bones, is this: he had never in his life loved anyone the way he loved her, and he never will again.

The days go by, some faster, some painfully slow. The seasons turn. And to Sergio, even drenched in sunshine, surrounded by luxury, everything feels increasingly...grey. He has lost his purpose. And the life he spent so long planning for is at once beautiful and enviable and oddly hollow, like a Fabergé egg. He has escaped, yes, just as he always said he would, and yet he cannot escape himself. He cannot escape the sense that he has left the most important part of himself behind.

His usual distractions are no longer as effective as they once were. He can’t settle to anything. The old man in town has family visiting and postpones their usual chess game. _You need to get yourself a wife, young man_ , he says laughingly. _Then you wouldn’t have so much spare time to spend with an old-timer like me. You’ve got enough money to have your pick of the lot too._

Sergio’s smile feels forced, even to him.

Perhaps love is like an alcohol addiction, he thinks. Even when you know you can no longer have it, not ever again, you never stop craving it. Not a single day goes by when you don’t want it as desperately as you have wanted anything in your life. Once you know the taste of it, nothing is ever the same again.

For the first time in his life since he was a child and his home had been a hospital, Sergio finds himself sleeping late into the afternoons. There seems to be no point in waking early now, and the more sleep he gets the more tired he feels somehow, until some days it is almost impossible to rise at all.

The day he breaks is when he has the dream. When at last he sees her face.

Raquel.

_Sergio...I’m with you._

She’s in his arms, shackled to the ceiling in the hangar and kissing him as though her life depends on it, as though nothing else matters, until they’re both panting for breath, trembling with a heady mixture of passion and fear. And then, because this is a dream, the handcuffs melt away and her arms are around his shoulders, clutching his face, tangled in his hair, as they stumble backwards onto the couch, tearing at each other’s clothes, frantic with desire. The soft, perfect weight of her on top of him, her warm skin under his hands, her sighs of pleasure falling on his ears like a benediction.

Sergio wakes up with a need so overwhelmingly intense it almost cripples him, far more than just physical, an aching, soul-deep longing for the woman he loves to be in his arms.

He scrambles out of his bed, desperate suddenly just to get out, just to _leave._ The air itself feels stifling, even though the heat of the day hasn’t yet come. It’s early, he can tell. He doesn’t even bother pulling on any proper clothes, just runs out of the house barefoot in the loose linen pants he wears to sleep, heading mindlessly out to the beach.

He can’t do this.

He can’t live the rest of his life without her. Everything in him rebels at the thought. It is unendurable.

He starts to jog along the beach, needing forward momentum as his mind speeds into gear, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep. Sergio has never been much one for jogging – he has always considered it an inefficient form of exercise – but now the movement feels as necessary as breathing. The sun has not yet broken the horizon, and the sand stretches like an endless blank canvas before him in the pre-dawn chill.

He will go back. He will go back to Spain and find her.

His feet thud against the sand. His heart pounds. His mind races with the possibilities. There’s no way he could make it through a European airport or even dock safely, even with the best of fake documents, but he could do it overland. He still has contacts that could get him the right ID to pass most border checks, and where he couldn’t there are a thousand ways to get into a country if you have the will. He could disguise himself as much as possible – with a shave and a different pair of glasses he would be unrecognisable from the low quality cctv footage the authorities must have of him – and make the journey by car and by train and by foot, if necessary.

It might take weeks, or months, but he could do it.

His footsteps pick up to become something more like a run, adrenaline racing through his veins, his feet pounding against the firm sand, kicking up sprays of it behind him with every violent impact. His breath comes in ragged gasps. He feels alive for the first time in weeks.

When he gets back to Spain there are plenty of safe-houses he could use to lie low and plan his next move – he had contingency plans by the dozen for any member of the gang that might have been trapped in the country after the heist on the Royal Mint, and many of them are still viable. He could be careful, he could take his time. And when he was sure it was safe he could knock on her door and she would open it and he would _see_ her, Raquel, real and tangible in front of him, and he could say...he could say...what?

It’s as if he’s run into a brick wall. Sergio hesitates, stumbles a little and that is all it takes. Suddenly the sensations of his body come brutally back into focus; the screaming protest of his muscles pushed far beyond their limit, the violent hammering of his pulse, the sweat pouring off his brow. He collapses to his knees on the damp sand, gasping and retching.

What could he say to her? What could he possibly say?

His heart is pounding violently against his ribcage, as if trying to break out of his chest. For a moment he is afraid, genuinely, that he is having a heart attack. His lungs are on fire. His fingers curl into the sand, clutching at the ground like an anchor as he tries to control his breathing. And with every laboured breath the mad impulse fades as reality reasserts itself, his rational brain kicking in and reminding him of all the reasons it would not work, could not be done. _Should_ not be done.

Raquel has doubtless found the coordinates he left her by now, and he should take comfort in the fact that she has clearly not done anything with the information but ignore it. It shows that she still cares about him, in some way. She does not want to see him found. But he can’t go to her; she must come to him, if she wants to. That’s why he left her a way to find him in first place. It’s in her hands. It has to be her choice.

Slowly, the white hot agony in his lungs fades, and Sergio is left feeling slightly ashamed of himself. He stands, shakily, looking around the beach, hoping that no-one witnessed his ungainly collapse, that he will not have to answer awkward questions from concerned bystanders. But the beach is empty – he is alone.

As ever.

* * *

** Ten Months After **

Raquel gets a job as private security in an office building. It barely lasts two weeks, and every moment of it she wants to scream with frustration. The cost of a carer to come in and check on her mother while she’s at work means she’s essentially working for nothing anyway, and so she quits without regret.

Money is a problem now, a constant worry.

Ironic really.

There is a rumour going around that some of the hostages received money for their trouble, in exchange for their assistance during the heist. A _lot_ of money. If it is true – and it does seem like the sort of thing the Professor would do – then no such gift has come Raquel’s way.

She doesn’t resent it. She can easily see why Sergio would not think of sending her money, even if he had a way to do so undetected. It would feel too much like a payoff, or worse, a charge for services rendered. Given what their relationship had been, accepting any money from him would have made her feel... _sordid_ somehow, and she thinks he knows her well enough to understand that.

Raquel doesn’t want money anyway. What she wants she can’t have. What she wants she shouldn’t want.

But beyond that, increasingly she just wants to get _away._ She feels the walls closing in around her more and more every day, her life becoming a prison cell. She ignores Ángel’s calls. She ignores _everyone’s_ calls. She feels disillusioned and adrift, and she can’t help but wonder: _is this how Sergio Marquina felt his whole life? Is this truly why he did it all?_

Not for the money, not for the fame, not even to make some grand political point. Just to do _something._ To _escape_ , not just this life, but himself as well. To break free from the unwritten rules that bound them all to their mundane existence, too often unquestioned as they went like sleepwalkers through a world they never imagined could change. But he had changed it. He had changed everything. He had changed her.

Raquel is sure, even though she has no basis for her certainty, that he would understand exactly how she feels now. That perhaps there is not a single other person in the world who could.

She thinks of the sunny beach somewhere, of palm fronds and crashing surf and arms holding her close and a voice whispering her name. Sometimes she can’t tell if it’s his voice or her own.

* * *

** Eleven Months After **

Sergio’s chess partner, the old man in town, gets sick, and it’s something of a wake-up call.

Sergio spends obscene amounts of money paying for him to get the best possible care. After a few weeks of horrible uncertainty and his family praying daily at his bedside, he recovers, and Sergio breathes a sigh of relief that makes him realise how much he has come to value one of the very few friends he has here.

He realises something else too – that if anything happened to _him_ , if he were to fall ill, even to die...who would be round his bedside, weeping and praying for his recovery? Who would mourn him if he passed away, or celebrate if he pulled through? In his youth it had been his mother and father, his brother; the fierce love his family felt for him, poor though they were, had sustained him though an illness that might have taken his life before he had even really started to live.

And now, what has he done with that life so hard won? His family is gone. His friends – the only people who might truly understand the hollowness he sometimes feels – are scattered to the four corners of the globe, for their own safety never to meet again. He lives a life of unimaginable luxury, and yet he is an exile. If he were to die here, tomorrow, just walk into the sea and drown, what difference would it make to anyone but his housekeeper, and his chess partner, and the people he knows to nod to in greeting in the town? What difference would it make to the world?

His perfect plan, his grand statement – that made a difference. The money it won him makes a difference, even if those it benefits will never know where it came from. But he, Sergio Marquina, as an individual is now utterly irrelevant.

It is a dangerous path for his thoughts to wander down, he knows. It could so easily lead to that grey feeling he has come to know all too well, the one that covers his world sometimes for days, even weeks at a time, heavy as a shroud.

And yet somehow, this new revelation of his complete unimportance is strangely freeing. If he has no ties, then he owes no-one anything any longer. For too long, he has been spending his life looking for purpose, for meaning, from external sources. But someone extremely dear to him once told him to dedicate himself to his own dreams, and so he sets out to do just that. He cannot live for his grand plans anymore, for his principles; he must live just for himself, _be_ just himself. Not _the Professor_ , not a ghost in the machine or a symbol of resistance made manifest.

Just Sergio. No more, no less.

Strange, but he had almost forgotten who that was. So maybe it will take some time to relearn, but time is all he has now, and if he has proven nothing else it is that there are few things he cannot do if he sets his mind to them.

But still, there is one thing he holds onto, foolish though it is. Every afternoon, after the boat comes in from the mainland, he goes to the same bar and sits down and waits.

And hopes.

And hopes.

And hopes.


End file.
